Erring on the Edge
by LifeBecameAScreenplay
Summary: Dr. Sara Clement takes on the challenges of new patient Tegan Quin in hopes of keeping her life from crumbling in all aspects: love, career, personal. AU. Quincest. (Rated for later chapters.)
1. Chapter 1: At Ease I Feel Fine

**A/N: Hello my lovelies! Okay, so here's my first attempt at an AU story, don't judge me! This was more of a test run chapter than anything, but if you guys enjoy it, I'll continue! So let me know with reviews and junk, will ya? x**

**Chapter 1: At Ease I Feel Fine**

**Tegan's POV**

I've always hated therapy offices. The way the waiting rooms always seem to be a half-assed attempt at making an awkward situation comfortable and homey, the dribbling of water in some cheap desktop fountain shoved off into a corner, a sound that blends "harmoniously" with Bach playing over an iHome and the second by second ticking of a clock that has some anxious teenager tapping his feet against the floor in hopes of avoiding a panic attack. The scattered and unorganized magazines left on empty seats by assholes too lazy to set them back in their proper place, the boxes of random toys that I'm sure the majority of which are broken by hyperactive children with anger issues whose parents are too tuckered out to pay them any mind. This room is a breeding ground of air weighed down by depression, anxiety, mania, and hopelessness that we come in hopes of seeking refuge from. Though for some reason, we're all still breathing it in, lingering in our own misery.

My train of thought is derailed by the sound of a door beside me opening, and as most people in this stuffy room, I glance towards it to inspect those who emerge. A young woman dressed in sleek black dress pants and a fitted blazer speaks quietly to a girl I would assume isn't much older than sixteen for just a moment before they part ways, the older of the two who I assume to be a therapist searching out the occupied chairs for her next appointment. Her facial structure is magnificent and quite honestly rather breathtaking: a chiseled jawline met with flawless cheekbones and intense hazel eyes that somehow scan across her surroundings gently, as if her gaze alone could grace the entire waiting room with a shimmer of sunlight to break through the rainclouds of turmoil we all seem to be huddled under. Her hair, a milk chocolate brown, somehow manages to be tussled and meticulously groomed all at once as it waves to cover the corner of one eye and find its resting place behind her ear. She doesn't sport much makeup—perhaps a brush of blush and eyeliner, at best—but the fact that her beauty doesn't come from being made up makes her all the more intriguing. I don't usually fawn over women; quite honestly, I've left a trail of broken hearts in my wake and I'm not entirely ashamed. I've always been the one being chased relentlessly by girls desperate for a piece of my heart, but it seems this situation may be different.

…What the fuck am I saying? I've only just encountered this woman and I know nothing of her existence. Not her name, not her age, hell, I'm not even entirely positive of her occupation. And upon closer inspection, it seems the ring finger of her left hand is occupied by a simple silver band that from my view is barren of diamonds or jewels. If she's married, she certainly isn't spoiled.

A glance at the clipboard in her hand has her speaking up, though her voice is delicate as if she were living in constant fear of shattering the fragile states that the majority of these people exist in. "Tegan Quin?"

A moment passes as I attempt to gather myself over the mere sound of my name tumbling from her silken lips. A shiver takes to my spine, goose bumps lifting beneath my skin in hopes of meeting the sound. I push myself to my feet and immediately hold my breath as our eyes lock for the first time, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips before she outstretches a hand politely. "Tegan?" she asks, to which I simply respond with a slight nod and a flimsy handshake, palm layered with clammy sweat. I've never been so intimidated by another human being's beauty before in my life. Not even my wife's.

"Nice to meet you," she continues, leaning her weight against the door to allow my passing through the doorway and into her office. "Make yourself at home, Miss Quin."

She's so gentle that she doesn't even allow the door to fall closed behind us; instead supporting its weight until it slowly clicks shut. I take a seat on the leather sofa opposite a matching chair, which I can only assume is hers. The office is dimly lit, natural light assisting in the glow as it streams through a nearby window. As she shuffles through paperwork while finding a comfortable spot in her chair, I take advantage of the silence to snoop about with my eyes. Bookshelves upon bookshelves organized alphabetically and neatly, though their presence gives the room a slightly cluttered feel. I make note of certificates and degrees hung neatly in mahogany frames that contrast the beige walls in a warm manner. The entire vibe of her office is nothing like the waiting room, and I'm plenty thankful for that. I don't need to shoulder the struggles of strangers along with my own burdens. I've done enough of that for years, and it's time to be a little selfish.

"So Tegan," she starts, bringing my focus back to her. "I don't know if they told you but my name is Dr. Clement…" those honey eyes were falling upon my own again, making that swimming sensation in my head return to life. "But you can call me Sara. I don't want this to be stiff and informal. Who wants to spill their guts to someone they don't know, right?"

Her attempt at loosening the ties that bind me to my apprehension is received with a slight chuckle, though I'm sure she's trained to realize that my defensive walls are still stacked, guns blazing. Apparently pleased with her successful first go, she crosses one leg over the other and leans forward, elbow against her knee as her balled fist supports her chin. She looks a bit like The Thinker sculpture, and I wonder if Auguste Rodin had something to do with her immaculate existence. "So you can just tell me whatever you feel comfortable telling me. Therapy can be a weird space sometimes, so I understand if you're hesitant."

She notices that my index finger and thumb have taken to absentmindedly turning my own wedding band back and forth as I examine it, noting that it needs polishing. It's scuffed, much like the relationship that it is meant to symbolize. "You're married," she says, though in a tone meant as a question more than a statement. I nod, though hesitantly, and immediately kick myself mentally for doing so. _Her job is to pick up on body language, you dumbass. She can read you like a fucking book. And judging by her collection, she does that rather well. _

"Yeah," I finally say, shrugging sheepishly. "But we're in a bit of a rocky spot right now, so…"

As my voice trails off, she leans forward, cocking her head in hopes of catching my eyes. When I finally allow her the opportunity, the corner of her lips turns up in a half smile, honey coloured orbs glazed over in understanding. "And I'm here to help you sort through that, Tegan," she says in the most comforting and soothing voice I've heard in years. "I can help you with some of the burden."

I can feel a pulling, tugging, knotting of my heartstrings when her sincerity radiates towards me. I'm so fucked up, so broken and tattered, so worn from attempting to put myself together without proper knowledge of anatomy. Life's been crumbling to ruins lately, fraying at the seams, and the weight of burden along with the heaviness of the world on my shoulders has weakened me to a point beyond carelessness. I've ruined my marriage, ruined my career, and ruined myself in the process. But here in Dr. Clement's office, a glimmer of hope finds its way into my life, an offering of light at the end of the tunnel.

It's corny as fuck, but that glimmer resides in her.


	2. Chapter 2: I've Been Told

**A/N: Hi guys! Okay, so after frustrating back and forth with writer's block, I've managed this short (sorry!) installation of Erring. I'm so, so glad you guys are enjoying it so far, and I hope you only continue to do so as it progresses. **

**This entire chapter revolves around the sound of Rowboat by Emily Haines and the Soft Skeleton (that's also the song Tegan's attempting to cover), so feel free to listen to have some music to set the mood! :)**

**Reviews are appreciated, as always. x**

**Chapter 2: I've Been Told (I'm Living a Lie)**

**Sara's POV**

I don't understand. I've been flipping through pages of paperwork in regards to Miss Quin—er…Tegan—for the past hour or so, taking to my research just a moment or so after she left my office. Its protocol for new patients to fill out an assessment that may as well be a small book of their scars and healing wounds, spilling their secrets and chapters they attempted to tear away onto a page for unfamiliar eyes to look into and dissect. She's made note that she's an avid drinker and doesn't hesitate to dabble in drug use, something that doesn't necessarily surprise me by the body language she displayed earlier. She's also been sure to mention the fact that she's unemployed, though it's been an unexpected change within the past month or so. Marital rough patches, carelessness in regards to her wellbeing, reckless and unmanageable mood swings…the list seems more like a never-ending laundry list of misery that Tegan's unraveled at my feet, and I can't help but think back to the distance in her gaze that blocked off eyes that at one time were surely windows to her soul. She looked so terribly down and out, as if the hope that everyone had insisted would come along with therapy was nothing more than that—a hope, and a lost one, at best. She has previous experience with psychologists, psychologists, medication trials, and one that stands out to me specifically—grief counseling. And now I'm left to shuffle through papers even more curiously than I was a moment ago, desperate to find the reasoning behind it. A wound that lead to grief counseling likely has yet to be repaired, though in my hunt through pages of her past, I come across the reason I'm looking for.

_**November, 2007—patient (Quin, Tegan) has entered grief counseling due to the death of sibling (Quin, Ryan; CoD: Suicide.) Patient has struggled with fits of severe depression since the age of 15; loss of sibling has brought on suicidal ideation and episodes of blackout rage, all of which patient is incapable of remembering. Patient is age 27, though mother has requested 48 hour observation period/hospital stay for patient's safety. Once cleared, therapy will resume as scheduled.**_

I understand now—the emptiness in her eyes, I mean. Continuing on through her files, I can't help but notice that the sinking feeling in my heart is only getting heavier with each moment that passes. Of course I feel for every patient that I treat, but Tegan's case has found its way past the walls I built at the beginning of my career to desensitize myself to the soul crushing stories I would inevitably hear. Perhaps it was the vacancy longing to be replaced by fulfillment once more. Perhaps it was the innocence in the half smile that she offered upon exiting my office. Perhaps it was the fact that twenty minutes together was enough to force me into committing as much of her physical being as I possibly could to memory. It was terribly inappropriate, I know this…but I simply couldn't help it. I find myself thinking that she is undoubtedly a heartbreaker when she's capable of living in her prime. A thought that I immediately shake off before shoving the papers back into her file that finds its place in my bag before I head home just as the clock strikes eight.

My walk home is filled with the sound of Emily Haines in my ears, though my mind has seemed to drift off to somewhere far off from here.

I find myself wondering what Tegan looks like beneath the streetlights that guide me home.

**Tegan's POV**

Eyes closed, my fingertips guide me blindly across the familiar sensation of worn ivory keys beneath my touch, foot applying pressure to the pedals in hopes of adding just the right depth in the chords that leave my piano.

"_I've been told I'm living a lie, I've been taught all my life…"_

Lyrics so terribly familiar lately practically take to my wounds like a knife hoping to open gashes I hastily stitched together after the loss of Ryan, stitches that I hoped could endure the downhill descent I would embark on. Peace of mind only comes to me in the form of music, though the peace is quickly shattered by the sound of hollering from the upstairs kitchen meant to capture my attention that is deeply enveloped in crafting audible forms of the demons tucked away within the closet of my ribcage.

"Are you eating tonight, Mozart?"

The name, meant as a lighthearted nickname of affection, is uttered by lips I've known as those of my wife for the past seven years. But in the company of the whiskey glass that I've managed to drain and the shadows of my darkest thoughts, I'm not in the most playful of moods, nor am I willing to give into her stupidity that lights flames of rage in the pit of my gut. Admittedly, the alcohol only adds fuel to my fire, but in solitude, it calms me. I never mean to snap at her, but unfortunately, her nurturing nature leaves her at the barrel end of my frustration without intention. My gaze falls heavily upon her as she appears at the top of the stairs, glass of wine in hand. She smiles, though the sweetness behind it falters almost immediately when she senses the bitterness in the air. I could never explain to her that my fits of anger are always due to my own stupid misery—she'd shoulder the blame in an instant if it meant relieving me of the heavy load against my crumbling structure.

"I'm not hungry."

I can hear her footsteps against the wooden stairs as she descends them, appearing at my side to squeeze my shoulders and take her hand comfortingly against tense shoulder blades. I don't want to be touched, don't want to feel her skin that tries to slip beneath the hem of my shirt in hopes of connection that we've been lacking. A tender kiss against the top of my head forces my blood to boil, and for a moment I almost feel as if a stranger is attempting to crawl beneath my skin. I shrug her off, shifting away towards the opposite end of the bench. "Don't."

I can hear a sigh escape her as she backs down, the tension in the air enough to suffocate the both of us. "Fine," she says shakily, as if her voice were a fist clenching to avoid further irritation. "I'll put it away for later if you change your mind."

Lindsey disappears back up onto the main floor of our condo, sure to slam the door of the basement behind her to display annoyance, but not before muttering, "Maybe if you stopped drinking you'd quit being such a bitch". The mere sass is enough to force me into oblivion, leaving me pushing myself to my feet, the bench flying back from beneath me as I slam my fists against the ivory keys I've always treated with such delicate admiration. "Fuck!" I practically scream, moving the fury behind my fists to pound against a nearby wall until my knuckles swell, stained with the crimson of my own disdain. I can feel the stinging of tears welling in my eyes as I squeeze them shut, hoping to ease the burning. "Fuck this marriage, Lindsey!" I yell as my voice chokes up, struggling to hold back sobs bubbling in my throat. "Fuck you and fuck everything! Fuck this house," I take a picture of the two of us that's neatly framed against the wall, whipping it to the ground until the glass shatters around it. "Fuck this goddamn ring," I work the silver band around my finger from its place, forcing it to meet the wood floor with an echoing clang. The swat of my hand against the glass sitting atop my piano forces it against the wall before it crashes to the ground as I storm up the stairs, tugging my jacket on before finding my way through the front door and onto the sidewalk. In hopes of calming my nerves, I take to my safety net of nicotine, striking up a cigarette and taking a heavy inhale of carcinogens into my struggling lungs. Without thought, my free hand finds my phone and dials up the number I was given just hours earlier, anxiously awaiting the sound of an answer on the other line.

"Hello, Sara Clement speaking."

Jesus, that voice is like honey, instantly warming the icicles forming inside of me. "H-hi, Doctor Clement. It's Tegan. Listen, I'm sorry for ringing you already, but I don't know who else to call and—"

The shivering in my voice from inebriation is immediately interrupted by Sara's calm tone that lulls me into momentary security. "Don't apologize, Tegan. That's what you have my number for."

"Right…well…listen, can we maybe meet up somewhere? I feel like if I stay in place I might just do something I really regret and—"

"Say no more, Tegan." The opposite end of the line goes silent a moment before she says, "How about we meet at Palmers? We can have coffee and talk."

Looking up the road that seems fairly desolate for this hour, I nod, realizing she isn't capable of seeing me before verbally agreeing. "Sure. Meet you in ten."

The line clicks after a cordial goodbye, and I'm left to hustle up the street, desperate for the comfort Sara's capable of providing.

It's been a few hours and I'm already addicted.

Give me the understanding that I've been seeking, Dr. Clement. Please fix me.


	3. Chapter 3: Sweater Weather

**A/N: Okay, so writer's block has been plaguing me lately and its impossible to shake, so I apologize for how long its taken for me to get this up. On that note, it's likely not my best work, but I hope you all enjoy their time together just the same. **

**Reviews and such are appreciated, as usual. x**

**Chapter 3: Sweater Weather**

**Tegan's POV**

It's odd to have coffee with someone I'm supposed to be on a disconnected, professional level with. Palmers is practically vacant aside from the two of us and an older couple having pie a few tables down, some obscure radio station playing quietly over a speaker system that's been hidden away in corners of the restaurant. The coffee beneath my nose wafts its vanilla essence upwards, spiraling against my slightly delayed senses as its cup warms the fingertips that cradle it. I'd much rather be holding close to anything with alcohol in it, but decide it's inappropriate to do so in the presence of my new therapist. She was lovely enough to take away from her own night to come babysit me, after all—the least I can do is be on my best behaviour.

Despite the fact that we've met under rather spontaneous circumstances, remains entirely professional, legs crossed beneath the table, shoulders drawn in as if attempting to take up as little space as possible. She's incredibly petite though—she barely takes up any space at all. My eyes fall back to her hands as they reach for her coffee, once again examining the wedding band around her finger. I can't say Lindsey's ring is blinding, though it surely isn't vacant of jewels that at least allowed her to feel like somewhat of a princess at the time. I find myself wondering who's waiting on her at home, who's made her dinner, who's climbed into their pajamas and readied Netflix before retiring for the night with Sara. It isn't a jealous feeling, though—more of a curiosity at best. After all, I do have a wife who has likely taken to a similar routine back at our condo…

"So what happened, Tegan?"

The sound of Sara's voice brings me back to the situation at hand, and I immediately offer her an apologetic smile for allowing my attention to drift. "I uh…I'm…I'm not really sure." Setting my coffee down against the faded wooden table, I take to rubbing at the nape of my neck for an attempt at easing the nerves knotting in the pit of my stomach. Actively seeking out help has never been a strong suit of mine, and while I understand that this is Sara's job, I can't help but wonder if I've already become a burden. "I had a few drinks at home, took to playing piano like I usually do to calm down and then…" I shrug, eyes lowering to catch an opaque reflection of myself in the surface of my coffee. I'm ashamed of the behaviour I've displayed with Lindsey, ashamed of how careless I am with her feelings and how reckless I've been for the past six years. I'm nowhere near the person she married, nowhere near the woman she fell head over heels for. I'm nowhere near the person I want to be. The person I want to be died the day my brother did.

"Then…?"

An exasperated sigh escapes me before I continue, the shame engulfing me beginning to feel like water in my lungs. "My wife Lindsey, she came to ask if I was hungry and I told her I wasn't. I just wanted to be left alone. But she's just the kind of person who tries to come to my rescue when she senses something's wrong—"

"And that's a bad thing?"

The look in my eyes when I raise my gaze to meet Sara's is surely nothing less than riddled with disbelief as my lips part slightly to respond, though nothing comes through. I've become so jaded to the world of therapy, settling into the idea of emptying my pockets for an inattentive ear. The fact that 's even managed to insert some sort of opinion into the conversation is nothing short of bewildering in my book, a response I'm sure she catches in my facial expression alone. Her brows perk upwards as if to silently suggest that she's awaiting a proper answer that I truly cannot give her. There isn't a single part of me that doubts Lindsey's perfection for a moment, but over the years I've reluctantly come to the conclusion that her perfection wasn't meant to be shared with me. Another sigh follows the realization that Sara practically forces me to take before I sip at the coffee that's slowly but surely cooling beyond my preference. I can feel my toes beginning to drum against the tile floor beneath us, a nervous habit that keeps me from over assessing the anxiety that's beginning to form knots in my gut. I start down the self-depreciating road of racing thoughts that insist Sara must be judging me, as I would be my patients if I were in her shoes. Absentmindedly mixing a shot of cream into my coffee, I swallow hard in hopes of loosening the lump that's formed in my throat. Do I admit to Sara that my mind's been set on believing that I've never deserved Lindsey? Do I admit that though it's been six years, I have yet to recover from the death of my brother? Do I admit that I'm crumbling beyond a temporarily sturdy structure?

"I don't deserve my wife. She puts up with my shit like it's her job and it's been like this for six years. If I were her, I would have left the second it started."

The words tumble from my lips before I can even give them a second thought, a flush taking to my cheeks as I realize the heaviness of what I've just said. I look up to Sara, very clearly flustered, as my fingertips move to sweep away the curls that have fallen against my forehead. Clamminess takes to my palms like a second skin as I nervously begin to push my tongue against the corners of my lips, uneasy about the thought of judgment that's sure to come in the form of an overly analytical answer from the woman sitting across the table. She's perked her eyebrows upwards slightly at the unintended confession, though gives herself a moment to contemplate a reply before speaking up. Her hazel gaze drowns in the green tint of tea as if her answer is lost somewhere at the bottom before she turns her eyes upwards to meet mine, though my own meet hers with hesitance. Tension's taken to the majority of my body in anticipation of backlash, though Sara's voice is gentle and calm as it finally comes through.

"Tegan, we all go through rough patches. Unfortunately it's a part of life that we just can't tiptoe around as much as we'd like to believe we can." She pauses a moment before her eyes soften. "…Is there a reason behind the change in your relationship? Something that triggered it, maybe?"

Again that mass has formed in my throat, making it a struggle to breathe as I attempt to clear it away to no avail. It's an emotional knot that refrains from allowing me to choke back a sob that's threatening slowly but surely, the sting of tears bringing their presence to my attention. A shake of the head is followed by my nervous fidgeting, hand moving back and forth against the razor cut hair at the nape of my neck. Quietly, I confide in Sara. "…I…I lost my brother."

**Sara's POV**

I knew that Tegan had been affected by the loss of her brother, though to the extent that it still left her voice cracking to avoid bursting into tears right there at the table left me hesitant to continue our conversation. These were wounds that she had struggled to mend on her own, stitch jobs lacking in structural accuracy that had come undone with the tugging of other emotional struggles that demanded her attention. It breaks my heart to look on as Tegan's soul begins to unfurl before my eyes, unwinding upon the surface of the table while she struggles to gather her innards and shove them back into place haphazardly. I watch to reach out, offer my assistance or even the simple solace of physical comfort, but the professional in me says to keep a distance. I've never been so driven to fix another person before, but the tab that she seems to be drowning in leaves me aching for the knowledge that I've done something to make her better. I barely know Tegan beyond the wounds she's come bearing and a few hours of nose deep study in her files, but within her despair I find a gleam of hope that begs me to try.

_I'll fix you, Tegan. _

"When did you lose him?" It's the only question I feel is mildly appropriate in the very public setting we've come to meet in, my fingertips absentmindedly brushing back and forth against the warmth of the ceramic mug that holds my tea. I watch on as Tegan rages an internal war within herself, wishing I could offer the solace I know she's desperate for. But I can do nothing more than wait on her answer with bated breath, stirring a packet of sugar into a bottomless cup. Tegan finally sucks in enough air to answer, though her eyes fall helplessly against the surface of the table, unable to meet my own. "He uh…" nimble fingers knot together before beginning to wring, perhaps hoping to dry the clamminess forming against her palms. I await the rest of her sentence patiently—after all, I'm well aware of the fate her brother suffered, though not entirely, seeing that I'm left in the dark in regards to his method. I know all too well that certain deaths are likely to leave deeper wounds, though I'm unsure of whether or not she'll open up enough to allow aid to assist in her own repair. Her brow furrows in great distress, worry lines forming like deep caverns in her forehead before mumbling, defeated. "He committed suicide."

While this information is nothing new, the way the admission fall from Tegan's lips so painfully leaves my heart aching for her. She refuses to look to me, almost as if the guilt she feels is equivalent to a situation where the loss of her brother's life was caused by her own two hands. Beyond the glasses that sit against the brim of her nose, I can see the tears welling and creeping their way across beautiful lashes, threatening to tumble down well-structured cheekbones and linger against lips swollen from biting. I force myself away from the thought that pushes towards the front of my mind, the idea of her lips swollen from kissing rather than nervous and habitual biting, the idea of removing the saltiness of her tears through aforementioned kissing being reason to derail my train of thought. Tegan's attractive—this is surely a fact well known to many—but she's also married, and more importantly, she's a patient. Our relationship is professional; friendly on the deepest of levels. I've barely just met her, though unfortunately in my profession, the soul baring personal connection that I'm forced to face with strangers on a daily basis leaves me in a difficult position. A sigh escaping me, I know my sympathy is scrawled all about my face as I allow my fingertips to just barely cover over her own as a gesture of physical comfort that is nothing more than a friend to a friend. As her honey coloured eyes find their way upwards to lock with my own, I offer the first few words that my mind can muster. "I'm so sorry, Tegan. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, alright? Our discussions are totally up to you."

Tegan seems lost in a mixture of confusion and apprehensive disbelief, those golden orbs asking "_seriously?"_ without the need for words. It's almost as if she's never been told it's alright not to spill her skeletons at every set of feet that she comes across, as if she's never been told that what she does is ultimately her decision and hers only. Her eyes then wander over to our hands that still linger together, and a look that not even I can decipher after years in this field leaves me slightly breathless before she nods and hesitantly reels her fingers away, allowing them to fall into her lap where she continues to fidget. The bounce of her perfectly disheveled curls tug at my heartstrings as she nods repeatedly, as if she's struggling to believe what I've said, struggling to force it into a realistic and tangible idea. Finally, after silence that seems particularly grueling, she says, "Yeah. Alright…maybe another time, then…"

The cautious air that hangs heavily between us forces me to take note of our surroundings in hopes of refuge from the constricting in my chest that is breathlessness due to Tegan. The older couple that seemed cozy in a corner booth is now gathering their things to leave, wait staff sweeping and wiping down tables around us as if attempting to let us know that they're eager to head for home. It seems that Tegan's noticed as well, her fingers occupying themselves with working the zipper of her jacket up its track. She reaches for the bill sitting on the edge of our table, which I immediately grab for, cheeks flushing over the fact that our fingers are brushing once again like a corny romantic comedy. She moves to reel away at the contact, but must also feel the need to pay, and the conflicted struggle in her eyes almost has me chuckling. I lift my free hand before bowing my head slightly with a smirk, pulling the check closer. "It's fine, Tegan. Really. I've got it."

She moves to speak up, likely to decline, though instead drops her hands to her thighs once again before half smiling sheepishly. "On me next time then," she says, her words forcing me to perk up embarrassingly. So there's a next time…

Upon payment of our bill and a cordial goodnight to the young man who rings us up, Tegan and I find ourselves on the sidewalk just outside, surrounded by shadows of the late evening. I take the moment to selfishly fulfill the curiosity that had me wondering just a few hours earlier, noting the softness of Tegan's features beneath the streetlamps. The tip of her tongue pokes at the corner of her lips as she struggles to figure a proper way to end our meeting, and I can't keep myself from wondering if Tegan's mind is processing this similarly to a late night coffee date. Knowingly, I shift a half step backwards, my hands finding warmth in the pockets of my pea coat, though they'd much rather be finding it within the spaces between Tegan's fingers. "Thanks for coming out to deal with me," comes her voice, a saviour that forces my thoughts in the proper direction. "I know I can be a bit difficult sometimes and I know we really didn't talk about anything but sometimes the company is all I need."

"First off, I didn't come out to 'deal with you', Tegan." Her self-depreciating words take an arrow to my heart as I continue. "Second of all, I'm glad to provide the company whenever you need it. We all have those days."

Another moment of lingering silence has Tegan's sheepish smile taking to her lips once again before she awkwardly checks the time on her phone, looking up the sidewalk in the opposite direction of where I need to go. "Well…even so, thanks again, …" she furrows her brow before correcting herself, as if our impromptu meet up has left her feeling uncomfortable with formality. "..Sara. I'll…see you next week?"

I nod in response, allowing a small "mhm" to escape me before offering a smile in return. "Yep. Next week, same place, same time."

Tegan eyes me a moment after a nod of understanding follows, wondering how to officially end this. I'm sure she's struggling with whether a handshake or a hug is appropriate, whether or not a hug is even reasonable for a therapist/patient relationship, and to deny the fact that we're on the same wavelength would be an outright lie. We both settle for a stuffy and clammy handshake before she turns in the opposite direction, bowing her head as she wishes me a goodnight. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Tegan," I reply, wandering off towards the flat that I share with my partner, wondering how in the hell I'm capable of considering myself a professional when the last lingering thought on my mind is how I'm desperate to chase after her to spend the rest of our evening talking in nothing in particular, simply to have an excuse to stay in her presence.


	4. Chapter 4: Pull Your Tangles Out

**A/N: Errm. Not my proudest moment. I promise I'll fix the story up within the next few chapters. MJ=lacking proper muse. Don't be too hard on me! x**

**Chapter 4: Pull Your Tangles Out**

**Tegan's POV**

How long have I been staring at the ceiling? Long enough to notice that the paint is beginning to chip just beside the fan that turns in hypnotic circles overhead, tempting me to crawl beneath downy comforters and cool linen sheets for an afternoon retreat from reality. The cable box reads 3:23 PM, warning me that Lindsey will be arriving home within the next two hours or so. If I haven't had a shower, if I haven't tidied up, if I haven't started dinner…what is now our condo will surely become the main stage of a world war two reenactment that I truly want no part of. But I'm scheduled for an appointment with at 5:30. Maybe I can get past Lindsey without much interaction and escape unscathed.

It's horrible to think of my wife in such a manner—no one needs to tell me twice. But I can't help but beg the minutes to tick by faster for the simple opportunity to spend a sliver of my week in the presence of the woman who's been heavy on my mind day in and day out since our first meeting. Sara.

Reluctantly, I find my way beyond the sanctity of my bed and into the bathroom, bare feet padding against cool tiles that send chills across my spine. Stripping down to nothing as the mirrors begin to fog with the steam that is slowly increasing in temperature, I can't help but recall a time where something as simple as bathing together cascaded our relationship in sensuality. It's been years since I've allowed Lindsey so close, our only intimacy coming from intoxicated nights that leave me desperate for whatever human contact that I can manage. It's always so rushed, so disconnected, so…cold. A fuck that barely takes more than ten minutes because Lindsey's learned my like the back of her hand by now, knowing exactly what throws me over and into oblivion without much effort at all. That doesn't keep her from trying though—Christ, she tries so hard to tunnel beneath the walls I've reconstructed within the past few years, and while her efforts have not gone unnoticed, they are utterly useless. Kissing, caressing, sweet nothings mumbled into the space between our bodies too close for comfort…it's all such a waste. And what a fucking bastard I am for allowing her to try when I know that there's nothing she can do to change it.

I scrub the sickness that I feel with myself from my skin beneath water hot enough to scald, leaving me to turn a deep red upon emergence. I punish myself for the mere fact that I've admitted that my love for Lindsey isn't as tangible as it once was. I punish myself after acknowledging that it will never return. I try so hard to singe the memory of my wife's touch from my body to ease the guilt. I may be miserable, but she certainly doesn't deserve to be. Somehow I've managed to begin daydreaming of what it must be like in the shoes of Sara's wife. As I dress into my usual attire, I casually wonder what kind of kisses she may place against the crook of my neck as she assists in the buttoning of my shirt, how perhaps she'd perch on the bathroom counter and watch admirably as I tussled my hair into meticulous dishevelment. I have a laugh at my own expense, knowing all too well that perhaps my unhappiness with the routine Lindsey and I have settled into is the same discomfort I'd find if I left my wife for my therapist. It's likely that I'd leave Sara for someone completely random and unexpected, perhaps for the wife she left, or maybe neighbour who struck my fancy in passing. The thoughts that run through my mind on crumbling tracks leave me shaking my head at my own reflection before asking it aloud, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

I ease a freshly ironed sweater over my collared shirt, slipping my feet into lace up loafers with just a tad of a heel, enough to give my dwindling stride a sound of confidence that I lack otherwise. But just as I'm reaching for my jacket, the sound of my phone vibrating against the bathroom counter disrupts my routine, sending me dashing through the doorway and snatching it into my hands before the call is dismissed to voicemail. I don't even check the screen before my thumb slides across it like mechanical impulse, lifting the phone to my ear. "Yeah?"

"Hi Tegan, this is Sara calling…"

I almost immediately regret my less than cordial greeting when that familiar voice plays against my ears, teasing me like a siren song. My knees respond by weakening to the point of forcing my weight to support itself against a nearby wall as I reply as coolly as possible. "Oh—hi, Sara. How're you this afternoon?"

"Y'know, I wish I could say that I'm better than I am," she offers up with a small chuckle, and it's only then that I catch the hoarseness in her tone. "But I've come down with some sort of bug, I'm hoping it's only a reaction to the weather but I didn't want to risk being contagious so I was wondering if we could maybe reschedule today's session."

I've never quite felt the sensation of my heart dropping over such meager news, though I can thoroughly sense it tumbling from its strings' hold, dipping beyond the confines of my ribs, past my knotted stomach, tripping over trembling knees before finally coming to a crash landing in the tips of my toes. All of this disappointment over a cancelled appointment? Really, Tegan? I struggle to regain my voice, though I have to keep myself from openly pouting into the receiver.

"Awe, that's a shame. I really do hope you feel better."

My tone must fall rather flatly, as she pauses a moment and allows the silence to linger before speaking up once again, this time the concern practically radiating from her end of the line to mine. "…Were you doing okay? If you aren't doing well, I can head over to the office, Tegan. I don't think it's anything contagious, I just—"

But before she can even finish her sentence, my hunger to see her hijacks my better judgment and I'm blurting out, "No, no. No, it's fine. Really…maybe I can just…meet you?"

Another excruciating wave of silence threatens to drown me, though before I can even think to apologize, she asks, "Meet me? Like, at the office, or…?"

What do I say now? Truthfully, the idea of her office seems so terribly impersonal, or perhaps that's the part of me desperate to know her beyond the restrictions of our patient/therapist relationship. Perhaps it's simply the boredom of my own relationship speaking, but I insist, "No, if you're feeling under the weather I wouldn't want you to have to leave your house. I mean, feel free to say no but maybe I can just swing by your place."

Another awkward pause. I can hear her struggling to come up with a plausible answer while still being cordial. "I um…y'know usually that's…" she sighs, as if the debate raging war within her is finally settled by an answer she feels she may regret later. "I do have a home office if you'd like to change it up a little and you don't mind my rasping." Again she chuckles, a sound that brings a smile to my own face before accepting her invitation. "Yeah, of course. Just text me your address and I can do that."

**Sara's POV**

It's a quarter to six and I have yet to hear from Tegan. We arranged to meet at 5:30, though I suppose she seems the type to appear fashionably late. She's an interesting character, I won't fail to admit—without the anxiety and swinging moods, I'm sure she's quite charming and personable. Though just as I'm preparing to ring her, the sound of the doorbell sounds throughout the entryway followed by clamoring paws against the hardwood floors of a dog curious to see who has come to visit. Sweeping away any wrinkles from the blouse I've put on in hopes of appearing better than I feel, I wander over to the front door, pulling it open and offering Tegan a small smile as she steps inside. "Thanks for meeting with me," she says casually, not bothering to apologize for her lack of punctuality. She offers up a to-go cup that I can see is steaming in the air between us with gummy grin. "Green tea's your thing, right?"

The gesture is nothing but appreciated as my fingers snake around the warmth of the offered paper cup with sheepishness, a small nod following as I lift it to my lips and sip, feeling the raggedness of my throat loosening its grip on me as a small hum of contentment escapes. I note that Tegan's taken to sipping at what I assume to be coffee as she watches on with that same childish grin, forcing a flustered flush to take to cheekbones that she seems to be admiring. I clear my throat as comfortably as I can to break the pause that always seems to find its way between us as I move to escort Tegan to my home office just around the corner. "Well, this was really nice of you, Tegan. Thank you. My office is just over here…"

I only stop my pacing when I realize that I don't hear steps following behind, turning to in fact see that she's busied with my dog, Apollo. He's taken quite a fancy to her, paws up on her thighs as she ruffles his grey coat about with nimble and gentle fingers. The sight tugs a smile onto my lips as Tegan looks to me shyly, as if giving my poor pup a bit of affection was strictly off limits to her. Cautiously, she begins to tap her nails against the cup she cradles between her hands before suggesting something aside from what I had originally planned. "I'm um…I'm a little anxious and um…I spent the majority of my day in bed, honestly…do you think we could just walk around a bit? Outside or…maybe you could give me a tour? If that's not creepy or…breaking some kind of code that you have to follow, I mean."

**Tegan's POV**

Am I fucking high? Did I really just ask Sara to give me a tour of her home in place of our normal session? The nervous pause between the two of us is only shaken by the jingling of her dog's collar as he nuzzles into my leg, eager for a bit more affection that I had so willingly expressed just a moment before. She looks up the hall that leads to the kitchen before peering around the corner into her office, likely debating whether or not her choice will be a lapse in proper judgment. Rubbing at the nape of her neck, she sighs slightly before offering a weak smile. "Sure but…afterwards we have to have our session, alright? It wouldn't sit well with my co-workers if they heard that you and I were moseying around my condo."

I can't necessarily disagree with Sara's logic as we head up the hallway, my eyes taking in the neatly framed pictures that line both walls. I assume the majority are of close friends and family, though I don't allow myself the time or opportunity to observe too closely. Instead, I follow behind her slowly, noting the warm milk chocolate brown paint job that seems far more inviting than the off white ones of my own home. My fingertips glide absentmindedly along them as we make our way into the kitchen, mahogany coloured cabinetry and stainless steel appliances with the addition of granite countertops leaving me to admire the tidiness. There's a teasing scent of comfort in the air that wafts throughout the room from the oven, and I take to wondering if Sara's the cook or if perhaps her wife has taken on that duty. "This is the kitchen, obviously," she says between sips of the tea I've brought for her before rounding into the sitting area. The living room, interestingly fit with a wall of aged brick, is accompanied by modern black sofas that look both comfortable and sleek. Again I note the perfectly aligned frames that now hold vintage concert posters and abstract art pieces, once again wondering if this comes from Sara's personal taste or if perhaps she's married to a woman too lost in the hipster subculture for her own good. I have a chuckle over the idea before Sara turns to me, a brow quirked in confusion. "Sorry it's just that uh…your living room…looks a lot like how I wish mine did," I attempt as a cover up, though I'm fairly sure she's capable of seeing directly past it. She doesn't respond with anything more than a weary smile before disappearing through a doorway as I follow directly behind, just as her dog Apollo trails against my heels.

We pass a bathroom, though I don't care enough to take it in, figuring that I'll do so if I find myself having to use it later on. Instead, we wander downstairs into what I take to be a recreation room of sorts, smiling at the pool table that isn't covered by a protective cloth as most are, leaving me to ponder whether it's been used recently. I don't take Sara for a competitive spirit, though I don't doubt for a moment that she's the logical and analytic type who could quietly kick anyone's ass at a game over a beer or two. "You play pool?" I ask, to which Sara responds with a small giggle that reduces me to a puddle before she follows it with a shrug of her narrow shoulders. "My partner really enjoys it…she's the one who got the table for us when we first moved here because we finally had enough room for it. She taught me and I guess you could say I caught on quickly…" her fingertips graze the polished wood trim that wraps about the table gently, "I mean, it's fun when we have company."

As Sara moves to continue the tour, I speak up without much thought, my mind caught on a loop over the idea of bonding with over a game of wit. "Maybe we could play a game?" She turns over her shoulder, giving me a look of confusion and slight bewilderment, forcing me to elaborate. "I mean… a game of…of pool."

"O-Oh," she mumbles, and for the first time I'm left to poke around in the moment where someone so incredibly cool and collected as Sara has seemingly tripped up for reasons that I'm not entirely sure of. Nodding in agreement, she says quietly, "Sure," before grabbing for two cues held in a rack mounted on a nearby wall. I watch as she carefully chalks hers, the pivoting motion and the grip she has on the polished stick leaving me feeling a bit dizzy. I follow her motions with my own hands and my own cue, though my fingers tremble endlessly as my thoughts set out to sea over the idea of living out a cheesy fantasy of sex on a pool table. Christ, has it been that long since I've been properly fucked? A moment of intimacy that I could actually hold onto isn't even accessible in my memory as I watch Sara rack the colourful assortment of billiard balls, setting the milky cue ball in a precise spot directly in the center of the emerald felt. Sara finds a position over the edge of the table, bent at the waist just enough to allow my eyes a better view of the curve of her terribly taunting backside. I can't believe the desperation that I feel, the clamminess that begins to form layers against the palms of my hands as my grip against the pool cue tightens, hoping to relieve the frustration building in the pit of my stomach. is off limits in more ways than one—she's married, I'm married, she's my therapist, I barely know her…hell, for all I know, her wife may be just around the corner. But all of these excuses simply aren't enough to keep me from pursuing, taking the lack of proper posture as a perfect opportunity to bypass the boundaries our relationship has forced upon us. Behind her, I readjust her arms and hand accordingly, the brushing of our skin leaving goosebumps to come to attention in roving numbers. "My brother taught me how to play pool," I explain to her, though my voice isn't louder than the shaking breath it surpasses. "If you hold your fingertips against the table like this, you'll have a straighter shot."

Sara's trembling against me, the curves of her back fitting perfectly into waves of my torso. My lips hover so close to the shell of her ear, wishing that they could graze against it just enough to get a gasp out of her. She swallows hard, the knot in her throat bobbing nervously. "I um…I…" I begin to wonder if the warmth of my breath playing against the crook of her neck is leaving her to blank, because she suddenly forces herself into an upright position, shoving me backwards in response. "Y'know Tegan I um…" flustered, the flush against her cheeks is obvious to me as I look on, proud of the fact that I've finally managed to work her onto the same wavelength. "I'm really not feeling well so…maybe you should just uh…maybe we should just reschedule for next week."

The hope that had already begun dwindling once our minimal contact was broken was forced to pieces, left in the soles of my feet and making it difficult for me to oblige with her mildly passive suggestion that perhaps it would be better if I left. Kicking myself internally, I stand speechless a moment before nodding shamefully, setting the pool cue back into its proper slot on the rack against the wall. "I'm…I'm sorry," I try, though Sara raises a hand to stop me. "Let's act like it never happened, okay?" she says, haphazardly dropping her own cue against the surface of the table before hurrying up the basement stairs and onto the main level of her condo, leaving me to rush after her in an uncomfortable tow. At the door, I can't refrain from apologizing again, feeling as if I've made a fool of myself and even going as far as wondering if I've put her career in danger. " Sara, I—"

"Tegan," her hand is raised defensively again, her face still red with bewilderment in regards to my bold actions. "I'll…see you next week, alright?" She clears her throat as the sound of a voice foreign to my ears calls out for her out of my line of vision. "At my office," she adds as I step through the doorway and onto the front steps, fumbling with the door as she quickly ends the conversation with a rushed "goodnight, Tegan" before it shuts in my face.

I spend the walk home wondering if jumping in front of a passing bus would be easier than facing her in the week to come, knowing I'll need a shower to wash the shame from my body before taking my sexual frustration out on the wife I'll be pretending is Sara the entire time.


	5. Chapter 5: To Condition Feelings

**A/N: Hopefully this chapter's turned out a bit better. Your feedback is appreciated, as always! x (PS: Tegan and Sara's "Red Belt" is going to be the main inspiration for this one. Enjoy!)**

**Chapter 5: To Condition Feelings**

**Tegan's POV**

We hit the sheets like teenagers in drunken lust, my hands begging her skin for forgiveness, my lips leaving apologies in purple hues that will surely deepen their impact come morning. I want them to sink into her as if there were never any blockades set between us over the years, want her clawing nails to remove the burden from apologetic shoulder blades. I want her to forgive me simply because I've put so many years away in this home that no longer feels like ours, merely mine with a ghost lingering in hopes of reconnecting with the past. But I already have one of those, my dearest sibling, and as he came and went with the tide of my life, Lindsey must, too. This is merely my attempt at mending the heart that I know has been broken since the moment I shut her out six years ago. The least I can do is help her feel loved before I go.

These thoughts are so scattered, slurred like the desperate call for her to be closer as her lips find my inner thighs, taking this rare occasion to rekindle her memory of my body that has faded lately. Her hands dip into crevices of prominent hipbones, veins and tendons of my neck pushing against sensitive skin as she hungrily engulfs me as if she knows my motives. She's always been so capable of reading me like the worn pages of her favourite book, though my cover will soon be shut beyond her capability of opening. That job will hopefully become Sara's, and I will become her new favourite story.

I hope.

Lindsey's mouth is everywhere, desperate to be the fuel that brought our dwindling fire back to life. She wants so desperately, perhaps even needs, to be the warmth these cold and rickety bones are actively searching for. But despite the tears that are forming in my eyes as they begin to cling for dear life against weakening eyelashes, despite the fact that Lindsey desperately attempts to provide me with the solace of her presence by breathing the words "Shh I'm here baby, I've got you" against my ears, there is no comfort that can offer me the refuge from the realization that hits me like a moving train.

I want nothing more than to know the warmth of hands and lips against me that are still foreign to my being.

I want Sara. No matter how out of reach she may be.

Lindsey continues her attempt at making love, though I have no honest love to offer in return. I take her fingers inside of me with eyes squeezed shut, struggling to put myself in an alternate reality with the aid of the heavy and reckless consumption of alcohol that I forced down upon arriving home from my "session" that wasn't much of a session at all. I pretend that the fingers that are now curling back and forth within my tightening walls are in fact Sara's nimble fingers that I've only been graced with once or twice now, the darkness allowing my fantasy to wander farther. The sound of Lindsey's encouraging words no longer take the form of her own; rather, they adopt the timbre of 's instead. The entire idea has me growing more and more excited, more willing to participate as my wetness takes to her hand as a desperate plea to continue I allow my hips to rock against her, riding her as the muscles in my stomach tighten. I keep myself from speaking, instead allowing the passage of groans and breathy moans, knowing that I very well may slip up at the most inopportune of times. I can't deny the fact that a portion of my heart, larger than I'm capable of admitting, hopes that my wife will find the allure to bring me back to her. I recall moments early in our relationship of being thrown against the wall, practically losing consciousness while in the throes of passion. This woman that presses the most loving of kisses against my lips, the one who hoovers over me while her fingers against each of my trigger points simultaneously, was once undeniably the holder of my heart that she mended with careful persistence, despite the fact that I allowed it to crumble over the silliest of situations each time. And each time without fail she was there to repair me, to support the weight of burden when it was simply too heavy for me to handle, my heroine in disguise. And it absolutely kills me, reduces me to nothing, as she eases me over the edge of oblivion in the gentlest of manners, mumbling repeated promises of her undying love between scattered kisses against my face. I grip at the sheets beneath me as my entire body transitions from immensely tense to lifelessly limp in a matter of moments, free falling into the emptiness of an abyss alone, despite the fact that Lindsey clings to me much like a parachute attempting to save me.

But she can't—and she won't.

I know that she needs the affection returned, though I'm reluctant to give into her desire for closeness and intimacy. Sure, I can fuck her—I can fuck anyone that's willing when I'm under the influence of one too many drinks—but to give her the passion that she's craving is something I'm incapable of. I'm as gentle as I possibly can be with Lindsey, treating this moment as if it were the first time, though truly it serves as closure, a means to an end, even. She'll catch on eventually that the glittering in my gaze is no longer reserved for her, though it has become reserved for a woman who isn't even mine, a woman who surely puts that same glitter in the eyes of her own lover. The final kiss that Lindsey presses against my lips is returned with silent begging for forgiveness as the soft pads of her thumbs graze over eyes struggling to stay closed in hopes of keeping tears back, though their attempt is failing miserably. I wonder if she is aware of the reasoning behind my tears and the sobs I struggle to hold in, forcing the knot in my throat to bob with each choke I swallow. Though regardless of whether or not she is aware, she lies me down against the cool comfort of our linen sheets, the skin of her stomach pressed against that of my lower back. I cannot help but note as I drift in and out of consciousness that my curves no longer fit like puzzle pieces into hers, her heart no longer beats in sync with my own. Hers is much slower, more relaxed, at peace, while mine takes to beating harder in hopes of its calls being heard by a heart up the street a few blocks in a home I've only visited once before.

**Sara's POV**

Dinner went by with uncomfortable lingering of the thought of Tegan's brazen advances heavy on my mind, though luckily my partner of eight years and wife of five took the conversation in her court, explaining to me the incredibly bizarre day she spent dealing with hopefuls attempting to wiggle their way into the music industry. I sit pushing food about on my plate with silverware gripped in slightly trembling hands, though my unease goes unnoticed by Stacy.

"So you had a patient over tonight?" she asks, finally bringing my attention back to the discussion at hand. I look up at her with tired eyes, nodding as I lift a glass of wine to my lips where green tea delivered by Tegan previously lingered. "I guess the office makes her nervous," I offer up as a response, brows knitted together to display my confusion. "I suppose it isn't terribly unheard of with anxiety patients, but y'know. I have to give them a place where they feel comfortable."

Stacy nods as she shovels what's left of her supper into her mouth before answering. "She didn't stay long though, huh? Did Apollo scare her off?"

She chuckles as Apollo's head lifts from its place against his paws across the room, ears lifting at the sound of his name. "Did you scare mama's patient off, monster?"

I can't help but smile as his tail wags mischievously in response, though I'm quick to reassure my wife that he wasn't nearly as much trouble as he implies. "She loved him, actually. Maybe he's meant to be a therapy dog."

Stacy, enamored with the idea of her dog being such an incredible help, begins to coo endlessly in his direction until he sheepishly wanders over, nudging his muzzle between her knees as he did with Tegan earlier as I begin to clear the table, returning the dirty dishes to the sink. I begin rinsing before placing them in the dishwasher, Stacy following close behind and snaking her arms about my waist as her lips find the crook of my neck affectionately. "I missed you all day," she mumbles sweetly, the faint smell of wine dancing against my nostrils. I reach down and run my fingertips against the back of her hand gently before finishing my current task, allowing the disposal to run a moment before turning on my heels, still cradled in Stacy's hold, to face her. I give her a smile, though it's rather lazy, as she presses a kiss against my lips that lingers a bit longer than I care for. The longer our lips meld together, the more I begin to fade in and out, bewildered when my mind wanders off to the curiosity regarding the softness of Tegan's kisses. Are they gentle or possessive? Where does she place her hands? Is she one to whisper sweet nothings between breaks? Is she romantic? Passionate? I'm making myself dizzy over the idea of a relationship that is completely and totally off limits for multiple reasons. But as Stacy lifts me from the ground and off of my feet, I wrap my legs around her waist with my eyes shut as our kiss deepens, the memory of Tegan's warm breath playing against the sensitive skin of my neck still fresh in my mind. I feel myself being placed upon the surface of our granite counter, legs continuing their embrace around my lover as arms drape over her shoulders, luring her closer. Regardless of whether I'm willing to admit it, my mind continues to sail into the seas of curiosity as Stacy's fingertips drift beneath the flimsy fabric of my shirt, gliding across my spine and forcing goose bumps to rise in their wake. "I don't have to be at work until two tomorrow…" comes her voice in a seductive purr, derailing my destructive train of thoughts as her fingers tiptoe closer to the clasps of my bra. I find myself holding my breath as my heart pounds relentlessly against the confines of my ribcage, to the point that I wonder if perhaps I'm close to blacking out. I can't explain my lightheadedness, though I'd like to shrug it off as consuming a bit more wine than I should have. But subconsciously, pushed far into the depths of my mind, I know that the true feeling is an unusual mixture of shame and craving as my imagination continues to loop back to the idea of Tegan being in Stacy's place. How can I even dare to think about a patient…particularly a patient so terribly unstable, a patient who has found herself at rock bottom, clinging to whoever is willing to offer a hand in hopes of returning to the surface of normality. _It's my need to nurture and care_, I tell myself as Stacy leads me to our bedroom, fingers laced together loosely. _I want to fix her and I see that she believes being fixed can easily be done with a bit of physical love…_

I hit the sheets as Stacy begins working at the button of my jeans, taking the zipper down in one swift motion before encouraging me to wiggle out of their hold. I do so, though reluctantly; unsure of whether or not I'm in the most proper place mentally to engage in the intimacy that she's seeking. The feeling of her weight on top of me as her hands sink into the mattress on either side of my head begins my descent into a world of pure fantasy, my mind teasing my senses into catching phantom whiffs of Tegan's cologne. The idea has me groaning, Stacy taking it as a wordless plea to continue, her teeth playfully sinking into the sensitive skin stretched over hipbones desperate for contact. Though just as I begin to sink into the comfort of enjoying a secret and taboo fantasy, the sound of Stacy's phone snaps us both back into reality. With a heavy groan of displeasure, she's on her feet in an instant, shooting me an apologetic plea for forgiveness as she steps out of the bedroom to speak with a client.

She may not know it, but I'm more than relieved that she's been pulled away from me, giving me a moment to wander into the bathroom and throw handfuls of blisteringly cold water against my flushed face.

I wish that I could scrub the feeling of being completely impure from my skin that's turned from pale to a full on blush in the heat of the moment. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I shake my head in a scolding manner at the face looking back at me, disgusted. "Go to sleep," I tell myself, catching a glimpse of the distressed bags below my eyes. "And don't you dare spend another moment dwelling on Tegan."


End file.
